enjoyed his teasing ways, which so alarmed Emma, and had always a saucy
reply of some sort ready. She liked to be called your ladyship, and
accepted his mock homage with a most regal air.
"What kind of flowers are you going to buy?" Mark asked.
"Violets, I think, because mother is specially fond of them."
"Aren't they rather expensive?"
"I don't know. I have two dollars; won't that be enough?" she asked
anxiously.
"Dear me, I had no idea you were so rich! Are you going to spend all
that?"
"I don't think that is too much to spend on your mother," she replied
with emphasis.
"Certainly not, I wasn't objecting in the least."
"No, it wouldn't do any good," she asserted with dignity.
Mark laughed, and inquired what flowers she liked best herself.
"Great big red roses," was the prompt answer.
"Commend me to a princess for extravagant tastes!" Mark exclaimed,
laughing.
The greenhouse was an enchanting place, and after the violets were
ordered Frances wandered up and down the fragrant aisles, quite
unwilling to leave. Mark at length grew impatient. "I am afraid it is
going to storm; we must go," he said.
Sure enough, before they had gone two blocks it began to rain. Mark
glanced uneasily at the clouds and then at his companion. Neither of
them had thought of bringing an umbrella.
"We can take the car at the next corner unless it begins to pour; in
that case we shall have to go in somewhere," he said, taking her hand.
They were hurrying down the avenue when they heard some one call,
"Frances! Frances!" and there was Mrs. Marvin just leaving her carriage
at the gate. "You must come in and wait till the storm is over," she
said, and almost before they knew what had happened they found
themselves standing on the porch with her, while the rain swept down in
torrents.
"I am grateful to the wind for blowing you in my direction," Mrs. Marvin
said, looking at Frances with her intent gaze.
The little girl smiled, and then remembering that Mrs. Marvin did not
know Mark, she introduced him.
The lady was very gracious and asked him in to wait till the storm was
over, but Mark said he had an engagement at home to meet a friend, and
did not mind the rain for himself; so, being provided with an umbrella,
he went off, promising to return for Frances when it cleared. This Mrs.
Marvin assured him would not be necessary, as she would send her home.
"I am always getting caught in the rain," said Frances, as she went
upstairs, her hand clasped in Mrs. Marvin's. "That was the way I
happened to get acquainted with the Spectacle Man."
"I am glad something brought you to me; I have been wondering if I
should ever see you again."
When her own room was reached the lady sat down and drew the child to
her. "Have you forgotten me in all these weeks?" she asked.
"Oh, no, I couldn't do that," was the reply.
"You couldn't? Why not?" and she was drawn closer.
Frances thought this was not the sort of person to be easily forgotten,
but she only smiled.
"I'd better not take it off," she said, as Mrs. Marvin began to unfasten
her coat. "Mark will be back."
"But you couldn't go out in such a storm, dear; you are going to take
lunch with me."
Clearly there was nothing to do but submit, and Frances was not
unwilling. Mrs. Marvin looked at her fondly; the slender little figure
in the blue sailor suit quite satisfied her fastidious taste. It puzzled
her, too, for such daintiness and grace seemed to her altogether
incompatible with what she had heard of the child's surroundings. Her
sympathies were narrowed by her sensitiveness to anything that fell
below her own standard of taste. She had yet to learn that there was a
broader culture than hers. No wonder she was bewildered as she listened
to Frances' frank chatter.
That this young person was very much of a chatterbox could not be
denied. Her father often said it would not take a Philadelphia lawyer to
find out all she knew, and on this occasion she had an interested
hearer.
"Emma and I think this is a lovely house," she remarked, as they went
down to lunch. "I like our flat," she added loyally, "only of course
there isn't so much room in it."
This, to her, made the chief difference,--more room, more things. Her
own home life had always been harmonious, had expressed grace and
refinement in a simpler way, indeed, but as truly as Mrs. Marvin's; and
so having always had the emphasis laid upon the best things, she felt no
embarrassment, but only a frank enjoyment in this beautiful house.
When lunch was over, Mrs. Marvin led the way to the library, where the
wood fire burned, and the little girl smiled down from above the mantle,
and a great bunch of American Beauties bent their stately heads over a
tall vase. What a combination of delights! Frances hung over the flowers
with such pleasure in her eyes that her hostess said: "Do you like
roses? You must take those with you when you go."
Mrs. Marvin took out a portfolio of photographs she thought might be
interesting, and they went over them together. She knew perfectly how to
be entertaining, and Frances enjoyed it very much, but when they came to
the last one she said: "Mrs. Marvin, won't you tell me now about that
portrait? I like it better than any picture I ever saw."
"Why, certainly, dear; that is my mother when she was a child. It is one
of my greatest treasures."
Frances felt disappointed. "Then she is not a little girl now," she
said.
"No; the picture was painted many years ago, in London, when my
grandfather was Minister to England. My mother was an only child."
"I am an only child, too," Frances remarked, her eyes fixed on the
portrait.
"Perhaps you will be interested to know that her name was the same as
your own."
"Was it? And your name, too, is Frances, isn't it?"
"Yes, we are three of a name," was Mrs. Marvin's answer.
"I suppose--" Frances hesitated.
"What, dear?"
"I was going to ask if the little girl was alive now."
"No; she lived to grow up and marry, and died while she was still very
young and beautiful, leaving three little children."
It was hard to realize that so much had happened to this bright-eyed
girl; Frances wrinkled her brow in the effort, and sat very still. After
a while she said, "I am glad her name was Frances; she always makes me
think of the Girl in the Golden Doorway."
"What is that?" Mrs. Marvin inquired.
"It is one of father's stories," was the answer, and without much urging
she told it, and told it well, because she was so fond of it. "It makes
me want to see him so," she added with a sigh, at the end.
Mrs. Marvin listened, her face almost hidden by the screen she held.
"Did your father ever tell you anything more of his childhood?" she
asked.
"Not very much. He went to live somewhere else, I think, and I don't
know what became of the picture. There is something about it I don't
understand, but some time I know he will tell me. I think a certain
person has something to do with it."
"Whom do you mean by a certain person?"
"It is some one who was once a friend of father's, but is not now. That
is all I know, except that I heard him tell mother he did not mind our
staying here, because a certain person was abroad; but I guess maybe I
oughtn't to say anything about it," Frances concluded uneasily.
The conversation was interrupted by a servant who announced a young man
to take the little girl home.
"It is Mark," Frances exclaimed, jumping up.
While they had been talking the wind had grown quiet, and the rain had
turned to a wet snow. Mark had brought her waterproof and overshoes, but
Mrs. Marvin insisted upon ordering the carriage. She held Frances in her
arms and kissed her as if she could not bear to let her go.
"I have had a beautiful time, and I am so much obliged for the roses,"
the child said, when at last she was released.
They drove home in state through the wet streets. "I tell you this is
fine!" said Mark; "I mean to be rich some day."
"So do I," replied Frances from behind her roses, and neither of them
dreamed what a lonely heart they had left behind them in that beautiful
house.
CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.
A CONFIDENCE.
This second encounter with Mrs. Marvin both annoyed and puzzled Mrs.
Morrison. It had come about naturally enough, yet she could not help
feeling that this lady's interest in a child she had not seen or heard
of six weeks ago was extraordinary; and though she did not wish to spoil
Frances' pleasure in her roses, she shook her head at the thought of
what they must have cost.
The violets which arrived early on New Year's morning gave great
satisfaction, although they were, after all, the cause of her
disquietude. Half an hour later came an express package from Honolulu,
containing some trifles of native manufacture in sandalwood and ivory, a
number of photographs, and a long birthday letter.
"I almost wish," Mr. Morrison wrote, "that our new home was to be on
this enchanting island. The box is for Frances' jewels when she gets
them, the other things to be divided as you see fit. If it were not for
the thought of two small persons in the house of the Spectacle Man away
off in the United States, I should be strongly tempted to run over to
China, it seems so near. But never mind! when Frances is grown we'll
make a journey around the world."
"I think father is so nice," Frances remarked, as if she had but
recently made his acquaintance, locking and unlocking her box with as
much pleasure as if it had been full of jewels.
Mrs. Morrison laughed happily; she knew what her daughter meant but
could not express the charm of sympathetic companionship. "Oh, Frances!"
she exclaimed quite gravely the next moment, "it has been good for us
to do without him for a while. We are so happy together I am afraid it
makes us selfish."
Mark left for school the first of the next week. His parting words to
Mrs. Morrison were: "You have been awfully good to me, and I'll not
forget some of the things you have said. The house has been a different
place with you and the Princess here, and I hope I shall find you when I
come back."
"I don't know about that," was the reply. "Just at present we are
wanderers, but we must look out for a home before long; and wherever it
is we'll be glad to see you."
After this, things quieted down into the old routine, only now Frances
began to count the weeks that must pass before her father's return. By
the first of April, if not sooner, he had promised.
She came down from her drawing lesson in great glee one morning. "Miss
Sherwin's story has been taken, mother, and they are going to print it
in March; aren't you glad? And they like the illustrations, too, and say
they will be glad to hear from her again; I saw the letter."
"It shows their good taste; I must go up and congratulate her," said
Mrs. Morrison.
"She did not seem to care much about it, mother. I don't think she is
quite happy," Frances remarked with an air of great penetration.
Mrs. Morrison had become very fond of Lillian. Over their Christmas work
they had found each other out, and a real friendship had begun. Beneath
the girl's somewhat cold and reserved manner there was a genuine
sweetness and charm which had at once responded to the unaffected
friendliness of the older woman.
Miss Moore professed to be extremely jealous, saying that already
Lillian cared more for Mrs. Morrison than she did for her; and on the
other hand, although she herself had been sociable to the last degree
with her neighbors, they openly preferred her taciturn companion. "It is
well that virtue is its own reward, for it certainly does not get any
other, in my experience," she remarked whimsically.
"Don't be such a goose, Mary; you know everybody likes you," replied
Miss Sherwin.
"Oh, yes, they like me, and say I am good-natured, because there is
nothing else to be said. It is my fate to be commonplace, and I must
make up my mind to it," and Miss Moore hurried away to her afternoon
class with her usual cheery face. Her moody friend was a puzzle to her,
and she by no means begrudged her any companionship that would make her
happier.
Miss Sherwin sat at her desk. Before her lay the envelope containing
the check in payment for "The Story of the Missing Bridge," but she did
not look like one whose efforts had been crowned with success. After a
few ineffectual attempts to go to work, her head went down among the
papers, and it was thus Mrs. Morrison found her.
"I knocked and thought I heard you answer," she said, "but even if I did
not, I can't go away now without trying to comfort you."
The pressure of the arm around her, the touch of the soft hand, was too
grateful to be resisted; Lillian leaned her head against her friend as
she sobbed, "It is only that I am such a goose!"
"I know all about that, dear, we so frequently are," Mrs. Morrison
replied, smiling a little all to herself. "But," she added, "you ought
to be happy to-day. I came up to congratulate you on your story."
"I have had three taken this week, and instead of being happy I hate it
all!" Lillian's head went down on the papers again.
By dint of much patient encouragement and real sympathetic interest the
story came out by degrees; all the hidden sorrow of months found an
outlet in the broken little confession. Not very clearly told, it was
yet plain enough in a general way.
A boy and girl friendship had grown into something stronger. Only a year
ago they had made happy plans for the future they meant to spend
together. Then came the misunderstanding--a trifling thing in the
beginning, but which grew until she was convinced she had made a
mistake, that she had never really cared. She felt she needed freedom to
go her own way and do her own work. She would be independent and try
life for herself.
He had laughed at first, and this hurt her pride. She would show him
she was not a weak dependent creature, and with some bitter words they
had parted.
"I thought I did not care--that I could be happy in my work. I meant to
be famous and I did not mind being lonely," said Lillian; "but now that
I am having a little success it means nothing because--" she hesitated,
and Mrs. Morrison said softly--
"Success doesn't mean much unless there is some one to share it and be
glad with us.
"Yes, that is it. Perhaps if I were a genius it would be different, but
I have only a poor little talent, after all. And I see how I was most to
blame. I was hateful and proud--and now there is no help for it. I don't
know why I should tell it, except that you are so kind, for it cannot be
undone, and I must learn to bear it."
"It is so much better for you to speak of it, dear. And do you know
what I am thinking? That it is not easy to destroy the bridge between
two hearts that really love; isn't that it? All you can do is to wait
and be patient, going on with your work and making yourself worthy of
the best that can happen to you."
"But when one makes a mistake one has to bear the consequences," said
Lillian, sadly.
"The pain and self-accusation--yes, but how often we are given the
opportunity of undoing our mistakes. It is a hard, hard lesson you have
to learn, but isn't there a star of hope somewhere that you can fix your
eyes upon. Forgive me for pressing your own moral upon you, but it has
helped me and I want you to take comfort."
As Mrs. Morrison went slowly down stairs again, she said to herself,
"Poor little girl! I wish I could help her; but if her lover is what he
ought to be, he will come back, I am sure."
CHAPTER SIXTEENTH.
HARD TIMES.
Bad weather was predicted by the almanac for the first week in February,
and bad weather prevailed both indoors and out.
Frances had an attack of grip which came near being pneumonia, and
caused her mother some anxious days. Miss Sherwin, going in one evening
to ask Zenobia about the patient, found Mrs. Morrison herself in the
kitchen, crying as if her heart would break, her face buried in one of
her little daughter's white aprons that lay on the ironing-board.
"Is she worse?" Lillian exclaimed, much alarmed, for surely it must be
something serious to unnerve this bright, hopeful person.
"I don't know--the doctor didn't say so--but she is ill, and one can
never tell. Oh, my darling baby!--if she should get worse, and Jack
away--why did I let him go!" she began a trembling search for her
handkerchief. "I left her with Zenobia-- I couldn't stand it any longer,
but I must go back now," she said, wiping her eyes. "I know I am
foolish, but I can't help it."
"You are not foolish at all, but tired and anxious, poor child," said
Lillian, with her arms around her. "Now listen to me; Frances is going
to pull through, I am certain of it. The doctor would have said so, if
he thought her very ill; but I am going to stay with you. I am a good
nurse,-- I took care of my little cousin only a year ago, in just such
an attack, and you may lie on the sofa and watch me."
"Oh, thank you, but--"
"Please don't say a word, dear, for I know I can help. I am going to
take Zenobia's place now, and you may come when you have bathed your
face."
There was strength in Lillian's quiet, confident tone; Mrs. Morrison
smiled through her tears: "You will think me a great fraud, after all my
good advice to you. Like the physician who gave up his profession to
enter the ministry, I find it easier to preach than to practise."
"I am glad you are human," Lillian answered, and dropping a kiss on her
forehead, she went to relieve Zenobia.
She was quite right in thinking she could help, and during the few days
while Frances lingered on the brink of a serious illness she was a tower
of comfort and strength. The experience drew them closer together; and
when the worst was over, and the patient convalescing, Mrs. Morrison
said she believed it was worth all the anxiety to have found out this
side of Lillian.
"I do want you and Jack to know each other," she said, and this meant
that her new friend had been taken into the inner circle.
About this time the Spectacle Man sat at his desk in the room below with
an anxious look on his usually cheery face. The storm cloud had settled
upon him, too, and his trouble was a question of money.
The directors of a certain institution in which he owned a good deal of
stock had thought it wise to pass their semi-yearly dividend, and with
hard times affecting everything more or less, he could not see how Mark
was to be kept at school. Sitting there, he tortured himself with the
thought of what he might have done if he had only foreseen. He called
himself an old fogy, and wished he might be twenty years younger.
"The bridge is broke and I have to mend it."
The song rose to his lips unconsciously, and he hummed it in a dreary
fashion that caused Peterkin to open his eyes. At least he did open
them, and there was something in the serenity of those yellow orbs that
recalled the Spectacle Man to himself.
"You are right, Peterkin, I am foolish, and I thank you for telling me
so," he said, stooping to caress the smooth head. "There is always a
way, and you'll find it if you'll keep your eyes open, and don't let the
clouds of despair and distrust gather and hide it," he continued to
himself, and he began to sing again, this time in a cheery tone.
That same evening he went to see Mrs. Gray. It was a business call, for
the old lady needed some stronger glasses, and could not get out in bad
weather to attend to it herself; but after he had tried her eyes, they
fell to talking about other matters.
Mrs. Gray was lonely and unhappy. Her only son was going to be married,
and she knew she was a burden to him, and she wished she was dead. She
had not meant to tell it, but the benevolent face of the Spectacle Man
invited confidence.
He confessed to being blue himself, and then he told her briefly the
story of the bridge.
"You may say it is all made up, but some way I know it is true," he
added earnestly. "There is always a way, if only we are patient and
don't give up. You haven't begun to be a burden yet, and I haven't had
to bring Mark home. We can't _see_ the way, but if we go on a step at a
time, we'll find it."
Emma was also having a taste of bad weather. In the first place, the
General had an illness much like Frances', and this meant that he must
be kept in bed and amused from morning till night. Then Emma's teacher
decided to have her pupils give an entertainment on Washington's
Birthday, and Emma was selected among others to take part. It was an
event of great importance to the school children, and at recess nothing
else was talked about.
As Emma expressed it, she had never been _in_ anything before in her
life, and no prima donna was ever more excited over her debut than she
at the thought of this little recitation; but her pleasure met with a
sudden check upon the discovery that a white dress would be necessary.
She hadn't a white dress, and she knew it was hopeless to think of
getting one in time, still she couldn't help mentioning it to her
mother.
"A white dress! Will you tell me how on earth you could get one? Even if
I had the money to buy it, where would I find time to make it? It is all
nonsense anyway." Mrs. Bond was tired out and spoke with more emphasis
than she would otherwise have used.
Her daughter turned away quite crushed by the pitiless logic. She should
have to tell Miss Ellen and the girls that she couldn't be in it
because she hadn't any dress. She couldn't help shedding some bitter
tears, and that was how the Spectacle Man found out about it.
Her mother sent her into the shop to get some change, and his supply
being low Mr. Clark despatched Dick to get some; then noticing the red
eyes, he asked what the trouble was, and something in his kind,
sympathetic face drew forth the story.
As he listened an idea came to the Spectacle Man. "Now, Emma," he said,
"don't worry any more about this till--well, till Monday morning. This
is Friday, so you won't have to do anything about it till then, and in
the meantime something may happen. Indeed, I'm almost sure something
will."
All this may not have been very logical, but Emma carried away her
change with a much lighter heart.
That evening when Mrs. Morrison went in to pay her rent, she stopped to
chat with the optician. Frances was eating oyster soup upstairs with
Miss Sherwin and Zenobia in attendance, and her mother was feeling very
happy.
"Mrs. Morrison," Mr. Clark began in a somewhat embarrassed manner as she
was about to leave, "you know more of the value of such things than I
do; do you think any of these old belongings of mine are worth anything?
In money, I mean." By a wave of his hand he seemed to indicate all that
was in the room.
"I should think so. The portrait, of course, is, and that cabinet looks
very handsome to me. Are you thinking of selling?" she asked.
"I may have to, the times are so hard, and Mark must be kept at school.
Some of my investments aren't paying anything now." He paused a moment,
then added, "You wouldn't believe what a foolish old fellow I am, but
I'd rather set my heart on giving that portrait to some collection. I
have liked to think how it would look on the catalogue,--'Presented by
George W. Clark'--all nonsense, of course. Some ladies were here to-day
to ask if I would exhibit it. The Colonial Dames are to have a Loan
Exhibit."
"I hope you will not have to sell it, but if you should, that will be an
excellent way of advertising it. Oughtn't you to let Mark know the state
of affairs? Don't spoil him; he is such a fine fellow," answered Mrs.
Morrison.
"There's time enough for that," said Mr. Clark, and then added, "I want
to speak to you about something else," and he told the story of Emma's
trouble. "I thought perhaps you could--"
"Yes, indeed, I'm sure I can. Thank you for telling me," she held out
her hand. "How kind you are, Mr. Clark! Good night."
This makes it quite plain how Mrs. Morrison happened to walk into Mrs.
Bond's domain the next day with a white dress over her arm.
"I want you to look at this, Mrs. Bond," she said. "It is a dress I
had made for Frances last spring, and by a mistake it was cut so
short it had to be faced. Now she has outgrown it, and nothing can
be done. Do you think Emma could wear it? Frances is a good deal
taller. I have thought of offering it to you before, and now it has
occurred to me that Emma may not have a dress ready to wear to the
school entertainment,--Gladys was telling us about it yesterday,--and
if you will accept it, it will be doing me a great favor. I dislike so
to have it wasted."
"It is a very pretty dress; it is too bad Frances can't wear it," Mrs.
Bond remarked, examining it critically.
"Then you will let me give it to Emma?"